


Fading Away

by Persianjuliet



Series: Away In The Valley [1]
Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Invisibility, M/M, Moomins (Mumintroll | Moomins), Oneshot, Returning Home, Reunions, moomin turns invisible, trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 02:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18651502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persianjuliet/pseuds/Persianjuliet
Summary: A reversal of the popular "Snufkin becomes invisible" story.





	Fading Away

It didn’t happen all at once. Fading away rarely does, you know. Every now and then a poor unfortunate soul will wake to find themselves little more than cloth on air, all at once, the way that autumn is sometimes swept away by a blizzard in one fell swoop.

But this winter crept on insidiously, step by careful step, and so too did he fade out of sight. On the day the Moomin family awoke from their second hibernation after Snufkin’s disappearance, Moomin was as translucent as a ghost. 

He hardly noticed. His Pappa fussed and worried and wrung his hands over his son, but Moomin hardly noticed that, either. 

His Mamma had observed his condition begin weeks before their hibernation, but she had kept to herself except to offer extra love and attention, hoping-what? That a good long sleep would reverse it? No, perhaps not. She had hoped for Moomin’s sake that when they rose from slumber, it would be to the wavering notes of Snufkin’s mouth-organ once again, and her beloved child would return to himself as well. She held onto hope until the day they woke to bird-song instead, and she saw her son’s fur white like reflected light against the bedspread, hardly there at all. 

And so it was that of all the creatures of Moomin Valley, Moominmamma was the very last one to lose hope that they would ever see Snufkin again. 

It turned out that this was a sickness no remedy of Grandma’s could solve. No get-well-soon gifts from his friends, no fruit baskets from his neighbors, no amount of hugs and talking and playing and outings could reverse this. 

Moomin’s best friends did not leave him to disappear alone, of course. Little My made herself a constant pest around the household, forcing him to react, to talk to her, to move about and play. Snorkmaiden wept more than usual, but her alternating pleading and bossing was enough to get Moomin to play with them, and she was rarely found at home. Sniff was a constant too, although he usually had to be stopped from bemoaning Moomin’s condition and speculating on the fate of Snufkin in a rather tactless way. But he was there for his friend, as he had been for ever and ever. All of his companions were at Moominhouse more often than ever, and Alicia’s grandmother had even tried out a few witch-spells to help. 

Moomin’s family drew together around him, showering him with affection, making sure he felt the strength and warmth of their love for him. And he did, of course. It had never occurred to him to doubt it at all. 

But this was not the sort of love he was missing, and so it could not fill the hole in his heart.

Time moved mercilessly on, and it was April when Moomin woke up invisible. It was a long time coming, bit by bit, so he didn’t know to mark the occasion until the Hemulen tried to sit down in his chair at breakfast. Moomin ignored the clamor and the apologies that followed, staring down at his legs and realizing that even the tips of his paws were no longer visible, even if he squinted and moved his head from side to side. He frowned, though only he could see it. 

That day, before Little My, Snorkmaiden, and Sniff dragged a reluctant Moomin down to the beach, Moominpappa gave him a scarf to wear. “So that we can see where you are,” he explained. “If you’d like a bell, squeeze my hand twice and I’ll go fetch you one.”

Moomin only squeezed once, to show he was grateful for the gift. His voice had faded over time as his body did, and long before he was fully invisible he had grown weary of straining to make himself heard. It seemed easier to stop trying altogether. 

Snorkmaiden felt around for his other hand, and he gave it as if it was not his hand at all, but one that she owned and had been loaning him. She clutched it tightly, as he was used to by now. 

The first year after Snufkin’s disappearance was the year that Snorkmaiden and Moomin stopped their love-games. There was no more hand-holding, no more tender words, no more gallantry past what you would show a friend. In a word, they had broken up. The spectre of an absent Snufkin lingered over the pair whenever Snorkmaiden tried to kiss him, and they both felt hollowed-out and wooden when she tried. 

There was a period of misery, then, of Snorkmaiden disappearing from everyone’s lives to wail and sob and declare her perfect anguish, usually to her uncomprehending brother or a barely-sympathetic Little My. And Moomin was sorry, too, for he hadn’t meant to hurt her, and he did love her so very much. At that time, he still had his voice, though he couldn’t quite find the right thing to say anyway.

But for Snorkmaiden, a remarkable thing happened. In a time shorter than she could have guessed, she found herself smiling again, and in another time after that, she found herself hugging Moomin and making up with him. As it turned out, despite her fear, nothing could break their bond- different though it may be. 

And so, when he turned invisible, she was there for him too, smiling and offering her wholehearted love along with her hand. And love was something Snorkmaiden always had plenty of. She deserves a story of her own for the way she grew in those two sad years, but this is not that story.

She led Moomin away from his house, out to where their friends were waiting. Today, it was to be just the four of them. Little My explained her plans for a sand castle big enough to hold a bonfire in, waving her small hands grandly as they walked. Sniff made a few derisive remarks before getting quite caught up in the idea himself. Snorkmaiden put forth the concern that it might be a little cold to play in the wet sand, but Little My assured her that if she got cold she could warm herself at the bonfire as soon as they had finished her magnificent sand castle. And of course, Snorkmaiden could be in charge of decorating it with pretty shells. That satisfied her well enough.

The trees hung thick hands of green fingers over their heads as they walked, and the sun sparkled through the branches along the path. Moomin’s scarf, which was orange and brown and grey with a very handsome pattern knitted by his Grandma, caught the wind as it spun through the trees and the end of it fluttered playfully. 

It was one of the most beautiful spring days that any of them could remember. The valley was bursting with life and color. The river ran bright and blue, the flowers that usually dotted the fields now seemed to carpet them, and the birds couldn’t help but sing at the sight of the sun.

It was one of the most beautiful spring days that Moomin could remember. Silently- of course- and invisibly as well, he began to cry. It would have been a strange sight if he were visible, walking along with the other three, who chattered and laughed like spring-drunk sparrows while fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he sobbed.

Moomin’s heart was breaking, and no one could see it at all. 

*

Two years and six months. Or was it seven months? Maybe he had gotten it wrong altogether and he had only been gone a year. Or perhaps, as he sometimes feared as he lay awake, staring at an indifferent moon, it had been much, much longer. 

It was easy to feel as though you were going mad, it turns out. Snufkin knew, now. The silence had never bothered him before, not for his whole life as a lone traveler, and if it had, a song was enough to banish it.

But after two years and six months (was it? Wasn’t it?), he found himself unable to reach for a song. His mouth-organ, carefully wrapped in a soft leather pouch in his pocket, went untouched. For a while he talked to himself, but he hated the way his own voice echoed back to him. For a while, he welcomed any company he came across, but now he shied away from them and kept to the shadows where he could. 

The presence of others grated on him in a way he could not explain- or maybe he could. Maybe it was as simple as this: they weren’t Moomin. They weren’t Moominpappa or Moominmamma or Little My or any one of his friends. But most of all, they weren’t Moomin.

Where Snufkin had been, I couldn’t say. The lands he ended up in were nameless, the strange shores unknown to himself and to me. But this much I know: After leaving Moomin Valley, he had boarded a boat at the request of a stranger. The boat was carried away by a strange wind and a fierce current, far off course and far off the map. Snufkin had arrived in a perilous place, and for years had been struggling to find his way back. 

This may not satisfy you, and indeed, you deserve to hear about the terrible trials he faced. It was a time of great suffering, but also great adventure. But this is not that story.

Snufkin realized, on a certain sunny day in April, that he knew where he was. It felt as if something had knocked him back, a great invisible force that squeezed his heart and threw off its steady rhythm. He stared at the Lonely Mountains that rose before him, their shape so achingly familiar after all this time. His heart pounded, erratic staccato drumbeats pulsing in his ears. 

Lost, and now found. Over the mountains, they would be waiting. They must be waiting. 

All the visions of floods and fires, pain and torment that he had ever imagined might befall his friends now came to him. All the what-ifs that a person imagines when left with nothing but loneliness and time to imagine. 

Snufkin pictured a gravestone among the flowers. No, it would never come to pass. Moomin Valley was safe. For Snufkin, the weary soul, it was what he had been seeking for so long. 

Once, a few weeks back, he had a nightmare that crept up from the bottom of his mind like some nasty slinking animal to claw at him. He dreamed that perhaps he had made it all up. Maybe his time in Moomin Valley, the happiest days of a life spent wandering, hadn’t been real at all.

That was worse than anything had been, but the thought kept him going. If he searched the whole world over, step by small footstep, finding nothing, then he would know for sure. The longing and the fear alike guided Snufkin home, though he hardly knew it.

It was evening when he arrived. The birds had given way to frogs and crickets and the occasional silky call of an owl. The air was cool, but to Snufkin, it felt as good and warming as a hot bath.

The bridge was still there. Snufkin didn’t know why he stopped instead of running up to Moominhouse and flinging the doors wide. Was it fear that stayed his approach, or something else? 

Snufkin stood on the old familiar bridge, the same as the day he left it, and held his harmonica with shaking hands. It had been so long. What would they say to Snufkin? What would Snufkin say to them? What if… what if… 

As he stood, lost in thought and wrapped in worries, Snufkin’s hands lifted the mouth-organ by themselves. It was the memory of countless renditions of the same song played in happier times. Moomin’s song. He didn’t realize he was playing it until the sound reached his ears, and then it stirred his heart and he began to play in earnest. This time, standing on the bridge under a rising crescent moon, under a sky still purple-edged from sunset, Snufkin put all of himself into the song. Not a creature in Moomin Valley missed the sound of his harmonica that night, for something more powerful than the evening air carried it, and all ears bore witness.

Snufkin played for the home he didn’t know he had until he lost it. He played for years lost and words unsaid. He played for grief, for terror, for uncertainty and nightmares left along the way. He played for hope, for family, for someone whose face had never faded from his mind. He played for himself, and most of all, he played for-

Something fluttered in the corner of his eye, and even before he could turn his head, he was knocked off the guardrail of the bridge and tumbled end over end by something he couldn’t see. His hat- not his well-loved old green hat, for that had been lost along the way, but a droopy black thing made of felt- flew off his head and into the river. Snufkin gasped, for surprise and for the breath that had been knocked out of him. He didn’t know what had happened, but he felt unseen arms around him tighten, and a wool scarf seemed to be floating in the air before his very eyes. “Who on earth-”

And then he smelled something so familiar that he knew instantly, without a doubt, who on earth. It was the smell of clean cotton, of crumbled soil and grass and raspberry jam. It was warm and soft and he knew all at once in a wave of certainty that washed away every horrible vision of the past two years.

“Moomin,” he breathed. “It’s you.” 

It happened all at once. Becoming visible again rarely does, you know. But the feel of Snufkin, the smell of him, the look of joy and wonder in his eyes, and the echo of his song still lingering in the air- that was all Moomin had needed, as it turns out. Before Snufkin’s eyes, he became whole again, starting from his toes and ending with his smiling, tearful face. And they met each other’s gazes, and they embraced there on the old bridge, that chilly spring evening. 

And although healing takes time, and so does reuniting with family, I can tell you that Moomin and Snufkin found what they had been wanting then and there, and they were never to be parted for a long, long time. 

And I can tell you that for as long as he had Snufkin’s eyes on him, soft with love, Moomin never felt invisible again.


End file.
